Poem – Grandma’s Petunias

In Spring I watched my grandma toil: 

with eighty-seven year old hands 

she pertly cupped and clawed away 

the dirt, creating auburn bowls 

in which she placed petunia seeds. 

But summer weeds and pesky moles 

have claimed that emptied patch today – 

a bouquet of petunias stands 

against a stone on sacred soil.